No, this is probably not what JKR has in mind for the fifth book. Perhaps when I've read that, I can change this to reflect upon whatever new turn of heart Draco has had.
Draco Dormiens
Always in my dreams I have been more alive.
When I was in my first year at Hogwarts, when I was only eleven, my dreams were so much simpler. I used to be so sure about everything. I knew that I was the best – I was a Malfoy, I was a Slytherin. I was not troubled by Harry Potter, that disobedient brat, that unknowing boy undeserving of fame; I knew with all my heart that it was not because of any fault on my part that he did not accept my offer of friendship – though I have realised by now, all these years later, how poorly it was proposed. When I was eleven, I dreamt only of the life that was meant to be mine, the life I was promised. I dreamt of power.
A mere year later, my dreams became more anxious. With the near-promise of the annihilation of the Muggle-borns, I could feel my destiny approaching. I dreamt of blood on the walls, I dreamt of the way to fate being cleared before me as if by lightning. Nearly a year of anticipation filled my bones with lust for victory. Though I did all that was expected, the victory was not yet to be mine. All my dreams were crushed with the insufferable Potter's next victory – against Him, the Dark Lord whom I followed! I dreamt then of his blood, on my hands. I dreamt of righteous hate.
My dreams were filled that third year with fear; fear for and fear of my path. The pounding fear that my future was not as clear as my childish view had once promised. My dreams were no release from my waking hours, tense days filled with worry and half-planned manipulation. Potter, ever the favourite among those I truly needed, effortlessly pulled my goals farther and farther away from me. I dreamt of cliffs, their stones sliding always relentlessly away from my grasp. I dreamt of revenge.
The fourth year my dreams were scarred by shame. I became ever more obsessed with showing up Potter. I know that I went low to do it, but I believed I was succeeding. Success was, then, worth any cost to me. I accepted humiliation at his expense because I knew that I would soon get the revenge I once wanted. But I was wrong; the most careful of my plans were foiled in the end. The more I climbed, the lower I sunk. I knew not what to do. I dreamt desperately of the old ways I was promised proving themselves true. I dreamt of direction.
This fifth year, my dreams are stranger than ever. I dream now, by some strange turn of fate, of Harry Potter… but it is not his blood on my hands, but my tears on his; not his wounded screams, but my pleas for forgiveness. I have been given no power, no righteous hate, no revenge, no direction. The future I am living is not that which was planned so carefully for me. I have been abandoned to find my own. I dream now of a friendship I was too proud to seek. I cannot yet meet his eyes in the corridor or across a crowded room. I do my best to numb myself to the knife I once sharpened, that which I myself placed between us. I dream of a second chance. I dream of pardon.
Always in my dreams I have been more alive.
